home is where it's heartless
by Coins Compressed
Summary: Molossia isn't sure how he got here, and America isn't doing a good job enlightening him. / Oneshot.


**Notes: **My idea of what it would mean to be a micronation within the Hetalia canon, thrust into the world without 'growing up' like established nations seem to. I just wanted to explore the 'creation' of one, haha!

**home is where it's heartless**

So they're spending time together, and they're talking about everything and nothing when America just _has _to make it awkward. Honestly, Molossia doesn't know how he's aware of it – the fact America can't keep his mouth shut, that is. He just _knows, _so he should've been a little more prepared.

Hence America asks, without a hint of irony, "Why are you _here_?", grinning widely like he's proud of himself. He's swinging his legs, denim-clad like he's a fucking _teenage boy_ when in actuality he's been around for centuries; there's a mark of him in history, and it might not be as substantial as those of his contemporaries but it still gives him no excuse for wasting his time atop a picket-fence outside a house in Nevada.

"Why are _you _here?" Molossia retorts, shrugging. He's been 'here', as it were, for three days now – he started out politely enough, respecting the powerful _Mr. America _he's attempting to claim domain from, but the desire to be cordial has been depleting ever since America first said _sup _in greeting_._

"I'm a country, duh!" America says brightly. Molossia isn't impressed with that, and he's even less impressed as America goes on to add, "I'm the goddamn United States of something or other, and you're just... Well, you're a guy with an American dog, American family and American house."

Molossia's rendered speechless, though his glare says it all.

Christ, it feels _weird. _His face doesn't feel right; it feels like it's just been transplanted onto him, every motion made by it ricocheting through the body that's not used to _living_, let alone glare. That makes him question how, exactly, he knows what a transplant even _is_ when he's never left the grounds of this 'American' building, never ventured from it in the three days he's definitely sure he's existed for.

He knows everything, except the reply to that fucking _question_.

"My boss," he declares, when he regains the ability to actually speak, "wants the Republic of Molossia to live in harmony with the nation and population you represent, but he also wants your recognition that this is land belonging to our country, as you accept the presence of a new entity within your territo-"

"I don't have to do anything!" America cuts in cheerily. He clasps his hands behind his head, tilting it in unison. "Your 'boss' is still paying my taxes, still using my businesses, and it ain't like international trading either. Call me when you have an army or whatever, but really, it would just be cruel to let a little kid like you run such a tiny country _already_."

The glare on Molossia's face escalates to a scowl.

He is a fully grown man, a fucking adult, not a little kid; he knows this because he's wearing adult clothing, and because he's taller than even America, but... Three days. Three days is nothing, isn't it? Three days against the few hundred years America has under his belt, the few _thousand _under the belts of nations Molossia has yet to meet.

He doesn't know where he came from, and that's the truth of the matter. He doesn't know why he's here.

"I-I think I can decide that for myself," Molossia says, or at least tries to – because again America's interrupting, this time for laughing. Loud and long and lingering, mouth a mocking cavern while his eyes slide shut behind the gleaming lenses of those lopsided spectacles.

"What're you gonna do?" Through laughter, demanded. "What're you gonna do when the family here dies, and your dog dies, and you're left alone like _that_? You'll be gone, bro. You're not gonna expand."

"_You_ expanded," Molossia replies, almost accusatory in tone. "You did it _messily, _but you did it. Your manifest destiny was nothing more than grabbing land and growing up, and I know this 'cause I know everything about you just as much as I know I'm a nation _too_."

At that, America pops open one eye, lets a pause tumble through. Molossia's just about to add some kind of clarification when the blue-eyed brat says, "That's true. I ain't proud of some of it, but there's nowhere else for you to _go. _I've got this whole stretch covered as my very own, and hot damn did I have to fight for it – who _are _you? Who are you to try taking my land from me, dude?"

"I'm the Republic of Molossia," says he, the not-so-grand Republic of Molossia, and to even his own ears he sounds faltering.

"I'm the United States of America," says he, the established United States of America, "and you're prolly not even gonna be here in another fifty years."

**x-x**


End file.
